


Brought to Nest

by Iron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Obsessive Love, Stalking, these two are just fragging creepy okay, this isn't healthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Deathsaurus found Cliffjumper on the battlefield, and he takes him back to his nest. They have a conversation.
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Cliffjumper
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	Brought to Nest

**Author's Note:**

> It's one am. this is a bad idea. 
> 
> Edit: It was. I fixed the spacing issue

The dragon curls around the little prisoner in his nest, chin resting against the woven edge of it. His claws worry at the sides of the nest, walls raised up high enough to cradle him. If Deathsaurus were a normal officer, such destruction of his quarters would not be allowed. The last commander who had attempted to make note of his berth room habits had not been commander for long. 

This was before Deathsaurus had come to understand the requirements of command, and before he learned just how Decepticons handle changes in power. He’s kept his muzzle clean since then, kept his claws out of fights that might earn him something as terrible as a commendation. Another unit under his command is the last thing that he wants. 

Still, it affords him luxuries few others are given, such as a certain amount of levity in regards to those spaces he claims as his own. And it allowed him to bring the little red thing back from the battlefield, bypassing the normal channels put in place to keep the Decepticons from abusing their prisoners to bring him to his own quarters. 

He watches with a hunger in his belly as the mech begins to stir. It was processor damage that took him out on the battlefield, which hadn’t surprised Deathsaurus at all. The only thing that would bring his mini down is something that put you _out_. There are bits of exposed skull on one side of his helm where a bullet had ripped through him, and one of his delicious little horns had been torn away, but he’s hardly damaged enough to require a medic. A few weeks on berth rest and most of the essential systems would be covered over by newly formed plating, and in time even his sensory horn would repair itself, though it could take a decade or more to do so. 

It took several days for the little mech to wake up, curled up like a turbocat in the soft folds of Deathsaurus’s nest. The forced rest was good for both of them: it allows Deathsaurus to catch up on his work, and for Cliffjumper to heal. It’s quite obvious that he’s been running his frame far past the specs it was built for since before the war started. Every shift of his frame makes his joints click like they’re about to dislocate themselves. The war hasn’t been kind to his mini. 

Deathsaurus is there when the mech onlines, optics flickering in that pale, cursed Autobot blue that marks them so different from each other. Deathsaurus folds down into his more natural beast mode, stalking across the floor of his quarters to curl, sinuous, around the nest. His warm rumble is the only noise inside the room, the rest of the base caught up in the quiet of the off-shift. 

He can tell when the mini realizes he’s not in the Autobot medbay. His whole little frame goes stiff, optics offlining. He tests his servers first, for functionality or for straps, before sitting up slowly. His hands sink into the softness of the nest, and Deathsaurus notes with some pride how comfortable his little mech is. 

Finally, those blue optics online and alight on him. Something shivers and clenches in Deathsaurus’s chest as soon as he realizes Cliffjumper recognizes him. A thousand years apart, but Cliffjumper still knows him. He still matters to him. Those optics are beautiful, in their rage and their fear, and Deathsaurus feels the phantom ache of that hole in his chest. 

“You gonna kill me?” There’s a slur to his words. Probably the head trauma. Deathsaurus should call a medic. Have someone look into that for him. Make sure his little mini doesn’t collapse in a mess of struts on the berth and die. 

He doesn’t. He nuzzles in close, taking in the old energon and oil smell of him. “And why would I do that to something I put so much effort into bringing here?” 

“Because you’re crazy.” Small, strong hands push him away, shoving off his touch before he can truly revel in the chance to touch his mini. “Gerroff.” 

“What if I don’t want to get off?” He nudges back, almost playful, and snorts as the mech shoves three of his fingers up his nostril. His beast mode uses the dragon’s muzzle as a primary vent for his processor, and a secondary sensor for processing smells that are more advanced than the normal sensors in a mech’s vents. He pulls his head away, snorting to clear out the acrid taste of a frame gone too long without a proper detailing and the way the internal sensors are misfiring from the rough touch. 

Cliffjumper tucks self-satisfaction in the corners of his scowling mouth as he studies the way Deathsaurus shakes his helm. The way he doesn’t attack the mini for daring to lay hands on him. “I can make you.” His chest puffs up with almost forgotten pride. 

It almost makes Deathsaurus laugh. He knows that he’ll have to send the little minibot back, too much fierceness in him to be kept like the precious little thing he is, but he can enjoy his baser desires for the time being. He shoves his helm forward, spines thrust out. 

The mech rears back, and the only reason he doesn’t go aft over helm in the nest is because Deathsaurus is quick enough to catch him. 

Cliffjumper shoves him off with a snarl of his engine, plating bristling. “Is that why I’m here? For you to frag?” 

“Hardly.” Deathsaurus bears his teeth in sharp laughter at the mini’s little display of ferocity. It’s all rather adorable. He wants to lean in and kiss the snarl from his mouth, however premature he knows the urge to be. Not yet. Not until he manages to convince Cliffjumper to leave those idiot Autobots. It’s not like they appreciate him, leaving him behind on the battlefield like they did. “I didn’t want anyone else getting their hands on _my_ Cliffjumper, and I could hardly trust those so-called comrades of yours to help. You were just laying there, on the battlefield. Anyone could have swung by and taken you.” 

“My friends -“ 

“They’re not _your_ friends. They’re Bumblebee’s friends. We both know that.” It’s cruel, but Deathsaurus has never pretended kindness and refuses to start now. Besides, it’s not as if Cliffjumper didn’t already know. 

They both know what he’s like. What life around _people_ is like,, when you’re Bumblebee’s frame sibling, when no one knows who you are. 

He’s tried to build a name for himself. He’s still as liable to get shot by an ally as he is an enemy, no matter how large he makes his Autobot sigil, unless he’s got yellow in his seams. 

“People will come for me. My unit knows who I am. _They _will miss me.”__

__“Your unit isn’t going to launch an attack on a troop commander for one _minibot_ , let alone one whose name they can’t remember.” _ _

__That flinch - that little, ugly cringe - makes Deathsaurus kneed at the ground. Too far. He’s been learning, slowly, the edges of his own ability to hurt others. The ways hurting others _should_ hurt him, enable empathy he doesn’t really have. Not for most mechs, anyways. He thinks he could develop something like it for Cliffjumper. _ _

__“You’re only here until you’ve recovered.”_ _

__“And what are you going to do with me then?”_ _

__“Let you go. It’s no fun hunting something that’s already in your clutches.”_ _

__The noise that Cliffjumper makes at that is mostly disbelief and partially something _extremely_ rude. “You’re going to hunt me. Like I’m an animal.” _ _

__“Not quite. Animals can be clever, can be intelligent, but they don’t have quite the spark that you do. No mere animal could spear me through like you did.”_ _

__Blue optics flicker with shock. “You’re still holding on to that? The Probats were a fragging millennia ago -!”_ _

__“You were the last mech to best me like that.” He makes a gentle crooning noise, amused by the way Cliffjumper’s hackles rise at the sound. _So sensitive_. “Besides, an animal hunted like that is meant for fuel. You, Cliffjumper - you won’t be eaten.” _ _

__“What are you going to do to me?”_ _

__“One day - oh, Cliffjumper.” He butts in close again, until he can touch and nuzzle at the protesting mech, smell the softly building arousal coming off of him. “One day you’re going to run, and I am going to chase, and when I catch you, you will fight and you will _submit_.” His whole frame is vibrating with his hunger. _ _

__“You’re insane.”_ _

__Deathsaurus laughs and tastes his want. “Not as insane as you want to think.” He slides back, off of the nest. “Sleep. I have work to do. When you’re well enough you’ll be returned to Autobot territory.”_ _

__“I don’t trust this!”_ _

__“You don’t have to. All you have to do is sleep.”_ _

__He slinks out of the nesting area._ _

__Maybe he’ll have to return his mini this time, but the next time…_ _

__Well. They have time to decide what will happen next time._ _


End file.
